Page 92 of Life After You

“I’m not waiting Chace.” My voice comes out rough, edged with the kind of panic I don’t want him to hear. I sniff hard, the freeing air already making my nose run, though my emotions sure aren’t helping.

“Logan, there are wolves out here. Cougars.” His pace falters slightly, hesitation creeping in.

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The cold is seeping into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the ice already settling in my chest.

“Don’t be a dick! You could freeze to death or get mauled or—”

I keep walking.

“Logan!” Chace voice grows fainter behind me. “Logan, come on, man! This is insane!”

I don’t stop.

It’s dangerous.

It’s reckless.

I know that. But I don’t care.

Sitting on that fucking bus, waiting for my phone to ring with news that could shatter me—it’s worse. It’s unbearable. I’d rather walk into the dark, into the cold, into the goddamn jaws of whatever’s out there, then wait and find out if Mac is dead.

I must have walked three miles by now. My feet are killing me, but the pain is a dull echo beneath the storm raging inside me. My phone is slick with sweat, my palm cramping from gripping it too tight. I keep wiping it on my shirt, checking for signal.

Nothing.

The only fucking calls I’ve gotten have been from the guys.

And now—again—my phone buzzes in my hand.

Trey.

I answer before the first ring even finishes. “Have you heard anything?”

“No…nothing yet. Triple A’s here, though. We should be by to pick you up soon.” I barely hear the rest before the line goes dead. I stare at the screen. Fucking battery. An hour of constant calls has drained it dry. The few times I managed to get throughto the hospital, it was always the same—she’s in surgery…we’re doing everything we can…we’ll call when we know more.

My pulse pounds, rage rising sharp and sudden. My grip tightens, and for a second, I almost smash the phone into the pavement. But if I do, and the hospital calls—It doesn’t matter. It’s dead.

Maybe like—

No!

I start to yell, shouting until my voice is bloody and raw. If there are any predators lurking in the dark, let them come—I fucking dare them. I need to vent. Need to break something.

I shove my phone back into my pocket, my arms trembling. My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles aching from how hard I squeeze them. I should hit something. Lay into the asphalt until my skin splits and my hands bleed. Maybe that’ll make the pressure in my chest ease up. Maybe that’ll stop this helpless, useless, fucking powerless feeling.

My feet carry me forward without thought, past empty streets and flickering streetlights, past the silent ghosts of a city still asleep. I don’t stop walking until I reach the bridge.

My breath is fast, sharp. My chest heaves. The first rays of sunlight bleed through the mist, streaking the sky in gold and copper, setting the horizon on fire.

I made it through the night.

Did she?

I swallow hard, my throat raw. My fingers twitch toward my phone, but I can’t check. I can’t. I don’t want to see the words. Don’t want to hear the confirmation. No news is better than bad news. Right?

A gust of wind rushes down the hillside, pressing against me, urging me forward. I sway. Step closer to the edge.

Below, the valley is thick with trees, dark and endless.

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